


A Name I Call Myself

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dick notices that he formed a habit. And in no way did that little brat influence it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Name I Call Myself

**Author's Note:**

> Now I'm just going down my tumblr masterlist and posting things as I come across them. Bear with me, children.

You can't teach an old dog new tricks. Old habits die hard.

Two contradictory sayings that society insisted on passing down through generations. Dick Grayson rarely used either, but since recent realizations, they were the only things that he could think of that even remotely started to describe his mental state.

The state in question – well, it was more of a quirk, really. Or a tick. An anomaly? It didn't matter. Anyone who didn't know him well would assume it was just his personality. Something he'd done all his life. Those who knew him best would just stare when he did it, eyebrows furrowed or cocked in confusion. That, or they'd ignore it, assuming they heard wrong.

It was finally mentioned one day, a few months after everything was said and done. After Dick was Nightwing and Bruce was the  _only_  Batman once more.

Barbara had brought it to his attention.

He had been cooking. Or attempting. To prove to Barbara that he could, so she could report her findings back to Alfred. For some reason, the butler seemed to think he lived off of cereal. He'd opened the cabinet that held the plates, pulling out three – one for him, one for his guest and one to serve from – and one slipped from his grasp, smashing on the countertop and scattering on the floor.

"Come on, Grayson, keep it together," he sighed, carefully backing away from the crime scene as Barbara came into the kitchen.

"…huh." She muttered. "So Tim was right."

"What?"

"You  _actually_  refer to yourself by your last name."

"Do I?"

"Well, you just did."

"Oh. Yeah. Guess so."

"And I've heard you do it before. Multiple times."

"Really?"

"Really. And, I've got to say, Dick. It's kind of weird."

"Ha, I'm sorry? I didn't even notice."

And he hadn't. But ever since that conversation, he would catch himself doing it, even if it was just in his head. He found that he called himself Grayson often, more than ten times a day. But why? When did this strange…  _thing_  start?

It wasn't like it was a problem. He loved his last name; he was proud of his family and his heritage. But he's  _always_  called himself Dick, even in those ridiculous instances where he developed an inner monologue. The farthest he's strayed from that was when he called himself  _Richard_ , and that was normally considered a pretty big day in itself.

It was just one of those things. You have to figure out what suddenly changed or you'd drive yourself crazy. And the answer always seemed to be just on the tip of your tongue.

He racked his brain. He couldn't recall a time when anyone ever  _didn't_  call him Dick.  _Mr_. Grayson, sure. Sometimes even Mr. Wayne, though he was always quick to correct that. And of course, there was always Robin or Nightwing. But other than those few instances, everyone referred to him as –

Wait a second.

_Damian_  didn't. Damian never called him Dick, save once or twice. He always called him…

Grayson.

But that was the kid's upbringing. Call everyone by their last names, be proper and somewhat respectful to your parents, yada yada. Annoying as it was – he was convinced the boy did it half the time  _just_  to be obnoxious – no one was going to make him change it. It became kind of endearing after a while, even for Tim, though he'd never admit it.

But surely it wasn't  _Damian's_  influence. Because that would probably imply that Dick…

_Nah_.

After all, it wasn't like the child was dead, or living across the world. They were in the same city, same thirty mile radius. He couldn't exactly  _miss_  someone he could very well see every day if he _really_  wanted to.

But he had to face the facts as he swung past football arena for the fourth time that night, much like a certain Dynamic Duo used to do. He didn't miss the cape or the cowl. He could live without the signal at the police station. He didn't even really miss the car.

He missed the company.

As he landed on the roof, he smiled. He missed watching a child who barely came up to his chest take out seven thugs three times his size, and then complain that he was bored. He missed the snarky one-liners. He missed their banter.

He missed watching the child grow. In his skills and his compassion. He missed that look of awe Damian seemed to have when he saw Gotham City from a new rooftop vantage point. He missed the stops by the diner for those one-in-the-morning slices of pizza. He missed the questions – stupid, sarcastic, genuine or otherwise. He missed being able to say 'good job' when the kid solved a problem all by himself.

Oh hell, who was he kidding. He missed Damian.

It must have been some sort of defense mechanism, to fight the sudden loneliness of returning to his solo crime-fighting career. Whenever he did something stupid, potentially dangerous or was just plain stuck, a question would arise from the deep dark corner of his mind:

_What would Damian have said?_

And Dick would answer. Keep it together, Grayson. That was stupid, Grayson. You can do it, Grayson.

What a habit to develop. And after such a short time too. Even if he had noticed the oddity before, he would have equated it to being so soon after leaving. Residue from his year as the Batman.

But it wasn't residue, or a lingering effect. Because that would take the assumption that it would one day go away. Dick had a feeling the habit was here to stay. In a way, it grounded him, by making him slow down, think things through. Remember all the details. When Damian would call him – "What are we doing, Grayson?" – it reminded him that he wasn't alone; he could depend on other people. That he couldn't be selfish. He couldn't get annoyed with himself and just give up.

Dick blinked as it hit him. Somehow… god damn it, somehow that self righteous little brat  _conditioned_  him!

Note to self, Grays-  _Dick_. Dick. Note to self,  _Dick_. Next time you swing by the cave, mention to Bruce that Damian should be grounded. And then pop the front tire on the kid's bike on your way out.

_Can't teach an old dog new tricks._

Well, clearly, you can.

_Old habits die hard._

You're damn right they do.

Stupid kid. Who said you were allowed to make such an impression?

But he had. The angry, snobby, spiteful, adorable child tugged on Richard Grayson's heartstrings, and clung to them. It seemed the voice, the name, in his head was a piece of his younger brother that he was lucky enough to always carry around with him. Always pushing him to be better, stronger, kinder. A snarky little light in the lonely, dark corners of Gotham.

Suddenly, there was a click in his ear, "Aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

Dick rolled his eyes, "Meaning?"

"You've been standing on the courthouse roof for the last ten minutes, staring at the sky."

"Have you been watching me?"

"…no."

"You have been, haven't you?"

"This stake-out is a total bust. I saw you go by. Sue me."

"Don't test me. I totally could," Dick laughed as he scanned the surrounding buildings. "You've been working on your stealth. I can't see you at all. Good job."

"Clearly you haven't been. I can see you bright as the sun."

"Aw, love you too," Dick cooed. There was a sarcastic snort in response. "Well, if your stake-out is so pointless, come patrol with me. I'm sure we'll come across someone you can punch. Get all that pent up anger out of your tiny body. And maybe refill it with pizza from Tony's?"

There was an annoyed sigh, followed by the distinct pop of a grapple gun. "You're an idiot, Grayson."

Ah, there it was. Delivered with the perfect amount of attitude and chagrin. A touch of warmth and sentiment. Just as it should be. Dick grinned.

"Thanks, Damian."


End file.
